


Full of Questions

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bedtime Stories, Childhood Memories, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dalish Elves, Dalish Lore, F/M, Fluff, Kissing in the Rain, Moral Dilemmas, Romantic Fluff, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, Solas is Fen'Harel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:43:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas tells Lavellan about a little Dalish girl he once saw in the Fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full of Questions

Slowly, the tiny flame separates itself from Solas' palm and floats up to the point where the tent's two sloping sides come together; it thumps gently against the coarse fabric without setting it ablaze, bobs up and down for a few moments, and finally, steadies itself and floods the narrow, cramped space with a soft, warm light.  
  
Lavellan watches the little flicker from beneath half-lowered eyelids; the barrier of her eyelashes makes everything look hazy - in a cozy, comforting way, especially as she listens to the muffled patter of rain against the tent.  
  
Sera is taking the first watch tonight; Lavellan can almost picture her, the poor thing, shifting uncomfortably on one spot, as the persistent, sticky drizzle gets into her oversized shoes and slurps inside them against the heels of her bare feet, and as a single droplet dangles off her reddened nose. But Sera would pretend she does not care, of course; she would kick her shoes off and plunge her feet deep into the springy, soggy green moss, and toss her head from side to side like a wet horse - and no doubt, make a grimace and blow a raspberry in the direction of two 'elfy elves' who are nestling side by side in a warm, dry tent.  
  
Soon, the Inquisitor will come out and relieve the soaked but obstinately nonchalant archer - but not now. For now, worn out after a long day of trekking through wet green marshlands and setting walking corpses on fire with one swift strike of a runed dagger between the shoulder blades, she will get to revel in a few blissful hours alone with Solas. For now, the world outside will cease to exist, reduced to the barely audible flapping of wet canvas and the whisper of the rain. For now, it is going to be just this soothing little flame tongue overhead, and the warmth of their two bodies against one another, and the sound of his calm, soft voice as he recounts his travels through dreams and memories.  
  
As he speaks, she likes to push herself up on her elbow and to draw away a little (even though her fingers always remain clasped around his), so she can get a good look at his face and watch his eyes dim over and his lips part in a vacant, dreamy smile. This expression of his is one of her favourites; it comforts her to know that he is at peace with himself. For there are times when, in the middle of a kiss, he pulls back and stares at her with such poignant, shattering pain in his eyes that one might think one of them is about to die.  
  
This terrified, tortured look dissolves before she can pause for thought and ask Solas what is wrong. After looming over her in tense silence, he always ends up wrapping his arms around her, drawing her back towards him, and biting into her lips with a renewed hunger, leaving her to wonder whether it had all been a trick of her imagination - which he confirms every time she tries to cautiously probe him for answers (once he is finished with that favourite tongue trick of his, which he first demonstrated in the Fade when they had barely settled in at Skyhold, and repeated some time later, on her bedroom's balcony). And she almost believes him, every time - until the moment when the pain returns to his eyes.  
  
She has tried to console herself with the thought that this must be happening precisely for the reason Solas gave her that evening. He is just feeling uncertain because it has been so long since he spent time with someone who isn't a spirit.  
  
And if this is the case - well, she just has to keep trying to make him really, truly happy, hasn't she? Like she has always done since the day when, back in Haven, she hit him on the back of the head with that snowball, and he whirled around to face her with a startled cry that suddenly turned into a chuckle...  
  
And talking to her about the Fade does just that. It makes Solas happy. Blissfully, serenely happy. She can tell - and when she sees him like this, she has to contain herself from squealing out loud in utter glee, and squishing his perfect, perfect face. Because something tells her he would not appreciate that.  
  
'What do you wish to hear tonight, vhenan?' he whispers, hovering his hand over her hair.  
  
She smiles languidly and rubs her head against his palm, like a playful kitten. This seems to give Solas more confidence; he weaves his fingers deeper through the unruly, raven-black strands, his eyes filling with a light that almost outshines the reflection of the little flame.  
  
Lavellan bites her lip, narrowing her eyes in thought - and finally asks, taking time to choose her words,  
  
'You know, I have always wondered if there are any particular memories in the Fade that mean a lot to you? Something that you enjoyed seeing not because it was a great battle, or an echo of some super-epic event - but because it touched something... a cord within your heart?'  
  
He nods; she can see by the flicker of a smile on his lips that he is pleased with the question.  
  
'I have seen a great many memories that any other explorer of the Fade could have considered trifles - but which had profound meaning concealed behind them. A simple exchange of greetings, a sideways glance, a barely noticeable gesture - there is more to all of this if you know how to observe properly'.  
  
Lavellan furrows her forehead slightly.  
  
'No - uh... I did not mean that. Well, not precisely. I was talking about trifles that really, really moved you personally. Not just the general read-between-the-lines things - things that made you, and only you, feel...'  
  
'If it is personal, don't you think people would fail to understand me if I tried to talk about it?' Solas cuts her short, stiffening a little and lifting his hand out of the wild hairy mess on her head. 'What has moved me will be just empty sounds for others, making them scoff or yawn. Rather defeats the purpose of story-telling, does it not?'  
  
As he speaks, Lavellan sees his face darken, the light in his eyes going out beneath a pall of cold that she has never seen in them before - not even when Solas puts on his best icy mask during verbal spars with Vivienne (figuratively speaking, of course; it would be rather hard to imagine him mingling with the nobles at some Orlesian ball). Her eyes rounding like a child's, she catches hold of his hand again and forcefully draws it towards her face, pressing his rigid fingers against her burning cheek.  
  
'I am sorry if I offended you, Solas,' she mouths. 'You are right - there are places in our hearts where others should not intrude. I... I just thought...'  
  
'You thought I trusted you more, vhenan?' he asks suddenly; and she thinks she can hear a crack run underneath the surface of his voice - no broader than a hair, but very deep and jagged, with sharp, splintering angles. Like the cracks that crisscrossed the thick layer of ice at her and Cassandra's feet seconds before she faced her very first demon.  
  
Lavellan jerks her head from side to side to chase away the unpleasant image; as she does so, Solas' hand slips to the back of her neck. He keeps it there for a few seconds - and then presses his fingers against her flesh, making her draw her face closer to his, and plants a kiss on her forehead.  
  
'No need to apologize, vhenan. I will tell you about one memory that I cherish beyond all others - all I beg of you is that you do not question why it is so important. I... I do not think I am ready for that'.  
  
She nods fervently to show she understands; Solas tightens his embrace and begins, his gaze chained to the fluttering magical flame overhead,  
  
'Once, I fell asleep in a forest clearing, and as the Fade took shape around me, I saw shadows of aravels among the trees, and the figures of elven hunters lighting up camp fires and skinning the game they had just brought from the woods. I quickly realized that a Dalish clan had stayed there not too long before - and I had half a mind to force myself to wake up. You know how bitter I was towards your kind, vhenan, when we first met - and that dream happened a few years before the Conclave. At the time, I had not the slightest interest in watching the imprints left in the Fade by the Dalish and their affairs.  
  
'But I was weary, and the dream world held me tightly within its grasp - so I was compelled to stay and observe. It was just before nightfall, and in the gathering dusk, I soon spotted the figures of several children, skipping through the grass towards the edge of the camp. They strayed off far from where the adults were going about their daily routine, reaching the spot where the statue of...'  
  
Solas falls silent for a fraction of a moment, as though to catch his breath, and then continues,  
  
'Where the statue of Fen'Harel stood, facing away from the aravels. The children gathered round the likeness of the Dread Wolf, each straining very hard to keep at a safe distance, and each looking at the statue askance, as though fearing that the monstrous creature would come alive at any moment and bite off their foolish little heads'.  
  
Lavellan catches a hint at contempt in his voice, but says nothing, allowing him to continue.  
  
'After exchanging a few very agitated remarks, all of the youngsters scattered away - all save for one tiny, big-headed girl, who hovered on one spot for a while, and then slowly lowered herself to the grass at the Dread Wolf's side. It was too dark for me to see her face, but I could sense the spirits' reactions to her emotions. As far as I gathered, the child was the smallest and the weakest in her clan - and thus, determined to do her utmost to prove her worth. The other young elves had dared her to a test of bravery - she was to spend the whole night alone on the outskirts of the camp, next to the statue of Fen'Harel. Then, and only then, would the youngsters deem her worthy to play with'.  
  
Lavellan makes a small, gasp-like intake of breath - but Solas does not notice it, completely carried off by the flow of his own story.  
  
'I watched the spirits circling around the child, reflecting what was going on in her little heart,' he says, the tone of his voice rising and falling in a flowing, melodious rhythm. 'She was terrified at first - of staying up so late, and of sitting in such close proximity to the being she had been taught to distrust and fear. Time and again, she considered getting up and running back to the safety of the campfires; and time and again, her stubborn pride won over, and she stayed. And then - then something strange and wondrous happened, something that I never would have expected; and something that, as you put it, touched a cord within my heart.  
  
'As the night progressed and nothing dramatic happened, the child's thoughts began to wander. She turned to face the statue by her side, and studied the feral features of the beast, and wondered if anyone had actually seen the Dread Wolf to portray his likeness this way. Probably not, she said to herself - not in the past hundreds of years, anyway, as they were supposed to be hiding from the Wolf, not seeking him out on purpose. The stories of Fen'Harel must have been passed on from Keeper to Keeper, like the rest of the lore she and the other youngsters had been learning from the grown-ups.  
  
'And suddenly, the spirits' aura tingled with a silvery peel of laughter, for the image of the Keepers sharing legends made the child recall a game she would sometimes play with her peers - a game where one has to whisper a word in the ear of the player at one's side, so he or she can whisper it in turn to the next player, and so on. The child giggled to herself, because she recollected how ludicrously distorted those words came out by the time they reached the end of the line - but presently, the sound faded away. For it struck her that the same might have happened to her people's lore. Who was to say that the Keeper and the clan's storyteller were right? Who was to say that the tales of the gods and Fen-Harel were not twisted beyond recognition?..  
  
'As she pondered over these questions, which I had never expected a Dalish child to as much as consider, she began shifting closer and closer to the statue - till, with a start, I realized that she was leaning against the rough, mossy stone, all her fear gone. And this - this is what moved me. The sight of that little girl, drifting off to sleep, entrusting herself to the very being that she was expected to dread and to blame for every misfortune possible - while inside her drowsy mind, the spirits could still sense the echoes of questions she had been asking herself...'  
  
Solas falls silent, his face still turned upward towards the flame - completely unaware of the faint flicker of a suppressed giggle that keeps twinkling in the corners of Lavellan's lips.  
  
'Sometimes I wonder what became of that child...' he says, after a pause, his voice barely louder than a sigh.  
  
Finally, Lavellan cannot hold back any longer. She grins, so broadly that she can almost feel her pointy ears sliding a few inches higher.  
  
'Oh, that child never stopped asking questions,' she says in a very meaningful tone, making Solas swivel his head and peer intently at her. 'The adults would not listen, though; they were far too busy protecting the few shreds of old lore that they had - they did not have the luxury of nitpicking. The girl was not gifted with magic, so she could not become the Keeper's First and learn from her directly... Which did not stop her from distracting the Keeper at every turn. She had to know what really happened - to the gods, to Fen'Harel, to Arlathan. She had to make sure that all the stories were true. The little thing became a real pest; the clan tried to send her away on all sorts of tasks as often as possible, so she would leave them in peace. Tasks like long hunts in the wilds, or tracking for new campsites, or... or spying on the Conclave'.  
  
'You... It was you!' Solas breathes, drawing back, his steely eyes almost peeling the flesh off Lavellan's face with their unblinking stare.  
  
The female elf nods enthusiastically, almost blinding him with the radiant flash of her teeth. The thought that, even as a child, she already managed to touch the heart of the person she admires the most, makes her feel happy, and honoured, and almost giddy with glee - but her joy soon melts away, like a hazy veil of  morning mist. For Solas refuses to smile back.  
  
At first, she fears that the sudden revelation must have angered him for some reason; but the only shadow that darkens his gaze is the same familiar look of pain. And this time, she is absolutely certain she is not imagining it.  
  
'I should have known - ' he says slowly, speaking more to himself than to Lavellan. 'I should have recognized you back then, in Haven... There can hardly be two elves who are so full of questions about things others take for granted'.  
  
'Do you think I will ever get any answers?' she asks, as she tries to meet his eyes. But even though Solas is looking right at her, he does not seem to see her, to realize that she is still there, next to him; and as his lips move noiselessly, she thinks she can see them shape into a single short word.  
  
'Mistake'.  
  
Whatever is that supposed to mean? Why is he acting like this? Why did it upset him so much when he realized that he had caught a glimpse of her childhood memories? Why doesn't he want to explain?  
  
She is getting ready to pellet Solas with a loud 'There you go again! And don't you go telling me that you are not making a sad face!', when a very wet, very messy blonde head pokes inside the tent, and a shrill voice cries out,  
  
'Hey you there! Cantcha make yourself useful and magick the friggin' rain away or somethin'?'  
  
Solas starts and snaps out of his reverie; bolting up in his bedroll with his back rigidly straight, he coughs into his fist and readjusts his crumpled shirt. Then, after a couple of soothing breaths of air, he turns towards the intrusive head and says calmly,  
  
'It's only rain, dalen. And it will continue to rain until it's done'.  
  
Sera snorts deafeningly through her nose.  
  
'Yeah, right... Very funny. Well, if you’re so smart, you can go out here and wash your shiny head, stead of lyin' about and not doin' shite'.  
  
'It's okay, Sera,' Lavellan cuts in. 'I will relieve you. Go and make yourself warm'.  
  
The archer dives back into the shimmering, greenish wet murk, muttering something under her breath about 'freckin' fancy elves snogging around'; while the Inquisitor steps outside, spreading out her shoulders and inhaling deeply. This prolonged, gulping draught of rain water seems to clear her mind a little - but the nagging questions remain.  
  
What is she doing wrong? Why does he get so elusive at times, so hesitant? And why, in Fen'Harel's name, does she have to ask so many questions when there is no-one out there to answer them?  
  
She is about to step into the middle of the clearing where they have made camp, when a soft, warm hand touches her lightly on the shoulder. She swerves on her heels to see Solas, hovering silently on the tent's threshold; and the moment their eyes meet, he steps forward, wraps his arms around her, with his hands pressed tightly against her back, little short of clawing at the sticky wet folds of her clothing - and thrashes his open mouth against hers.  
  
His kisses, abrupt, impulsive, unexpectedly passionate, never fail to take her by surprise - and now, too, she finds herself stunned by the suddenness of his outburst. Too stunned to as much as attempt to do anything... Other than press tighter against him, and to drink in his hot wet breath, as their bodies seem to turn into liquid, melting and merging together under the torrential downpour; and as their clothes cling tight to their flesh, soaked folds sticking together till they can no longer tell who shirt is whose; and as their heads begin to swim with the heady smell of the lush, glossy green grass and the rich damp soil, and with the tingling, sweet taste of their own tongues.  
  
'Ar...' he whispers shakily in Elven, as he tears away from her lips and begins to kiss other parts of her face, greedily drinking the drops of rainwater that trickle down her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. 'Ar... lath... ma...'  
  
Shivering from head to toe with the chill of rain and pleasure, Lavellan echoes Solas' words into his ear, all questions forgotten for now. She knows they will return, inevitably - they are part of her very nature - but while she is in Solas' arms, and he is giving himself to her just as she is giving herself to him, she could not have been more happy and satisfied. Not even if, on that bygone night, the Dread Wolf had suddenly come alive and provided her curious little self with all the explanations she desired.


End file.
